Relay Column: A Feeling of Magnificence (Hikari Osanai)

Carrying two or three heavy plastic bags from the supermarket in front of the station, I enter the entrance and, after placing my bags on the floor, proceed to take off all my clothes. I shower with those feet before finally stepping into my room. A tiny 5-tatami mat room that is completely filled with a bed, a bookshelf, and a clothing rack. I wipe my smartphone with an alcohol wet wipe, clean the doorknob, wipe down the package of natto I bought, dispose of it in a bag, seal it, and put it back out at the entrance.

Even as I write this, I can't believe I was doing that voluntarily. I am inherently a very easygoing person when it comes to hygiene. The invisible virus spreading somewhere in this vicinity, along with the discomfort of living alone after a long time, became a significant anxiety that took residence in my heart, leading me to try to eliminate it through every conceivable action, even doubting my own skin and breath.

Having quit my job, I hastily decided on a one-room apartment a ten-minute walk from Asagaya Station, which I originally intended to be a temporary residence. I thought any place would be fine since I would only be returning to sleep, so I chose a cheap apartment without key money or deposit near my favorite gelato shop without much inspection. I began to regret this move a little, thinking it shouldn't have been like this. In a room where there was nowhere to sit except on the bed, I can confidently say the spring of 2020, which arrived without anything in particular to do, was a very special time in my life.

My friends were still at a pivotal moment, extremely busy whether their work would transition to remote or not. I, who was not good at being still in the house and would head to a café in front of the station just to read a book or reply to emails, suddenly felt as if I had been locked out of every single place. A newly moved-in room is inherently uncomfortable. Observing carefully to see if something dreadful has sneaked in, like when you return from a long trip, I began to gradually make it my "home" with the help of stuffed animals, postcards, and mugs. It reminded me of a hermit crab’s move. Perhaps a hermit crab feels lonely and longs to return to a familiar place right after moving too. In this small room, only my body stands out awkwardly. In "Gulliver's Travels," there’s a scene where numerous small swords resembling plant thorns are stuck in the body of the sprawled Gulliver. I was immediately overwhelmed by the time that kept bubbling up right after this situation began, and I simply kept sleeping on and on.

I would wake up, gulp down sweet bread with bottled tea, and lie back down again. My body felt heavy, as if gravity had doubled only in this room. Dreams emerged sporadically, syncing with the light in the real room or the sounds of washing dishes audible through the thin walls, and I devoted myself to simply accepting the fact that I was gradually sinking again. When I woke up, my mind was foggy, and I couldn’t summon the energy to read a book, watch a movie, or engage with anything during the streamed live events planned by my friends.